


DABDA

by grayglube



Series: Grieving Process [1]
Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Language, Post-Finale, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her grief is ocean deep and burns like a gallon of saltwater going down. It chokes her and she’s satisfied for it, she’s more suited for it than she was for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DABDA

She dreams about him fucking her and when he cums he cums cold because dead boys don’t have any body heat.

 

When she wakes up she sobs uncontrollably, heartbreakingly.

 

Her grief is ocean deep and burns like a gallon of saltwater going down. It chokes her and she’s satisfied for it, she’s more suited for it than she was for love.

 

 

*     *     *

 

It’s easy to get him to appear.

 

Most times he’s there anyway, she knows. He watches her. At night.

 

She says his name and looks around the room, rolling her head on the pillow, long since gone flat from too many nights of never being able to get comfortable.  

 

He’s sitting across the room, watching. Like always. Because it is more than most nights, it’s every night. He’s there.

 

She glares, he stares. When she gestures to the end of the bed with a brief nod he’s out of the chair and kneeling on the mattress. And when she slips out from between them to rise up on her knees he’s there helping push blankets out of the way.

 

He’s hesitant suddenly when she scowls and hangs her head. He pushes back her hair fondly, tipping her face up and cradling her cheeks with a small sad smile before he leans in to press a dry chaste kiss to her forehead. She snaps her head forward against his mouth. He falls back away from her and nurses his split lip with a wet tongue and fingertips.

 

She tugs him forward by his forearms and corals his hips in between her shins, she puts his hands on top of her knees and he shifts, smoothing them down her thighs to her hips to the bed, finally, before she leans back on her elbows and then falls back onto her shoulders.

 

He’s over her, making sure they never really touch anywhere, like she’s the skittish one, like she’s the one who’ll lose their nerve. She raises her hips and slips her fingers under the elastic of her underwear, pushes them down around her knees while his fingers trace the bony curve of either hip.

 

She feels the familiar waft of heat that always wraps itself around her thighs and down between them. He smells like himself, sweat and burning wood and his sweater is warm and rough where it bags away from his chest and drapes down on top of her bare breasts.

 

He touches her tentatively, carefully, watching her face.

 

His lips part with a gentle rasp when she tilts into his palm, her bare cunt hot against the heel of his hand. Her mouth slackens when he presses and rubs. It’s better than another night with her own fingers and worse because now that it isn’t her hand between her legs at some point she’ll have to acknowledge that it’s his.

 

She feels the familiar swell of a sob in the top of her throat, pressed tight against her tonsils and the prick of hot, thick, tears right under her brow and in the tops of her cheeks, everything breaks when he slips his fingers between her folds, slicker than when it’s her exploring, teasing, memorizing what’s between her thighs and strokes her clit.

 

“Stop it, please. Stop crying.”

 

And it’s come sooner than she thought it would. The talking. How quickly his words ruin everything.

 

“…shut up.”

 

And she closes her eyes.

 

“I can’t fucking do this if this is how it’s going to be.”

 

“This is how it is.”

 

She wipes her cheek against the pillowcase.

 

“Quit it, or I’ll leave.”

 

And his hand moves, settles for a caress on her thigh instead of where she really needs it.

 

“Then go.”

 

She’s already sitting up and kicking him away, down to the foot of the bed like a blanket that’s too heavy to sleep under. Her panties are already snug around her groin and ass and hips and the sheet’s already around her shoulders.

 

“I…”

 

“You what?” It’s a snarl from her side of the bed, out of her mouth but it sounds like someone else, she doesn’t feel like the words are tripping off her tongue.

 

“I…just. Fuck. I’m _sorry_.”

 

He’s always sorry.

 

“If it makes you feel like you’re forcing me then you might as well do it for real. I don’t need a fucking apology, it won’t fix anything and if you can’t do this then go and don’t come back.”

 

“Violet…”

 

“The idea of you watching me makes me want to die. I’m not a fucking pet you get to watch do fun tricks whenever you want.”

 

“That’s not…”

 

“I don’t care. I don’t care because I don’t think of you as a person anymore. You’re a thing Tate, or nothing. You want to watch me at night then I don’t care how much it hurts you if I cry, if this is what I want then I get it or you can go rot in the basement, jerk off over my bones.”

 

“Stop.”

 

And she doesn’t because he doesn’t get to tell her what to do anymore, he doesn’t get to beg her for anything.

 

“And you won’t talk to me because it’s harder to pretend I’m not just dreaming when you talk. And when I think of you touching me for real it makes me want to puke.”

 

“…”

 

“I don’t want you to like doing this because I don’t like that if I don’t do this then you sit and watch me and get off even if I feel so shitty about thinking of you that I can’t even cum. It’s not fucking fair.”

 

“Violet.”

 

“Shut. Up.”

 

“…”

 

“And when you’re here I know it.”

 

Even in the dark she knows his eyes go wide and scared at the idea that she knows where he spends the nights, a few feet away, that she knows he’s seen her hands trace all the places he’s left marks shaped like his mouth and sometimes the edges of his teeth, places where indents of his fingernails bruised and ached for days, that she knows just as surely as he knows that she thinks of him, that watching her gets him hard, that most nights his hand wraps itself around his dick while he’s still in the room and while he’s cuming she’s sobbing, unable to forget that once it was his fingers pumping in and out of her body.

 

“And for what it’s worth the feeling I get is probably a lot like the one I’d get if you crawled into my bed and held me down and fucked me yourself. That’s what it’s like, every fucking night.”

 

“…”

 

He shifts uncomfortably.

 

“So when I call you you’ll show up or you won’t and if I don’t call you stay away from me. You come back to spy on me again and you won’t be watching me fuck myself because I’ll be fucking your mom’s boy toy or if I can find him maybe your dad, or hey, how long’s it been since I died? A couple more years and Michael might just be as crazy as you and won’t care that I’m dead or related to him.”

 

“…”

 

He opens his mouth and at sharp kick she gives him it clicks shut.

 

“Don’t talk to me. You go back to the basement and wait or don’t, I’ve told you what will happen from now on. Now, go away.”

 

He’s gone.

 

She doesn’t cry that night, she stares at the ceiling until dawn stretches the light tight and grey across the room and everything feels much less important than how tired she is.

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

There are rules, he knows.

 

If he talks she tells him to go away.

 

If he doesn’t read her right she tells him to go away.

 

If he waits for her to talk before he touches her she tells him to go away.

 

He’s a toy.

 

He’s a pet.

 

He’s a thing.

 

And it’s better than the alternative.

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

It takes him a long time to learn the rules.

 

It takes her a month or something close to it to even call his name. He’s still bitter and his pride isn’t yet broken enough so he stays in the basement and ignores the pull of her saying his name.

 

She calls the night after and still he stays in the basement.

 

Months later when he’s wondered for what reason he didn’t snap into action the first two times she calls and he comes.

 

He forgets that he isn’t supposed to talk, says her name, and is sent away with two words a few seconds after he’s shown up at the foot of her bed.

 

 

*     *     *

 

He dreads answering her, going to her is walking the steps to his own beheading but it’s better than time spent rotting away in the tower. Even if eventually the last step hurts worse than the actual axe swing.

 

Sometimes she cries, she sobs horribly and he follows the wet tracks of them with his tongue.

 

Sometimes she moans but never his name, she moans for more.

 

Sometimes she tells him things, she’ll whisper she hates him and it sounds sweeter than her solitary _I Love You_ ever was, part of him thinks it’s because lies are always so much more pretty than the truth.

 

His always were.

 

*     *     *

 

He goes down on his knees, puts hers over his shoulders and presses hot, wet, kisses to where she’s dripping want and heat and need.

 

Her fingers dig into his scalp and later he’s in the basement nursing a small headache from just how hard she’d pulled at it in distraction, or maybe it was deliberate. He swipes his tongue across his upper lip where he can taste the remnants of her arousal and cups his fingers over his mouth and inhales her scent off his skin.

 

*     *     *

 

Finally she calls his name and wants more than his fingers or his tongue, she wants his dick, wants to feel the stretch of it inside her, the warmth of it, the rapid flutter of his pulse inside her body again.

 

She writhes around on the sheets and before he presses in she pushes him back, crawls on top and slips him inside, she muffles her angry and desperate moans with bites to his chest and neck and jaw, hard brutal gnashes of her teeth on top of his bones.

 

And he lets her.

 

 

*     *     *

 

Months go by after.

 

She doesn’t call him.

 

He ends up in her room anyway.

 

And he knows he’s the worst kind of idiot for it.

 

Because she sees him and says nothing.

 

She doesn’t need too he already knows what happens next is going to hurt him.

 

*     *     *

 

She always makes him come back. Eventually. He’s prepared for what he’s bound to see, her bouncing up and down on someone else’s lap, someone else’s fingers kneading the soft swell of her pert little ass, someone else’s mouth sucking hickies into her small, perky tits, someone else’s cum staining her bed sheets.

 

And he’ll watch, because it’s what she wants, because that’s his punishment.

 

But there’s no one but her. And for once she’s dressed and her expression is blank of everything, there’s no hate or want or mimicry of love changing the landscape of her face. She kicks a box at him, it slides across the floor fast, and he stops it with a foot and toes off the cardboard lid.

 

It’s worse than Travis, his father, or his son ending up between her thighs.

 

“That’s who I was going to fuck tonight. Hope he shows up, might have to find someone else if he doesn’t.”

 

He’s her monster and she wants him to prove he’s deserving of the title. Monsters aren’t worth much once they give up their fangs and their claws and he figures she knows as well as he does that he’s just been hiding his.

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

There’s a reason she’s only stuck to ether and modern pharmaceuticals for her occasional highs after other less successful experimentations. The laudanum Charles keeps in large supply gives her a bad trip. He’s seen it, there is no sleepy sedation or blissed out bleariness, there’s just fear.

 

Fear that makes everything a bit more real than just some twisted fantasy they may have both shared at some point separately in quiet moments, late at night, when bitterness and loneliness meld into perversity. He’s thought about fucking her in the suit, he’s thought about her saying no, but when he cums hot and spurting into his the circle of his fingers it’s with the thought in mind that she doesn’t really mean it, that halfway through the depraved sexual scenario that’s festered in his mind for years that she stops saying no and starts begging for it instead.

 

But between the suit and the laudanum and all her roiling ugly hate there’s just fear because in her nightmares she’s weak and monsters always like weak scared little girls the best.

 

Later it won’t mean much, he doubts she’ll see it the same way as she sees it now, she’ll only mock him for it.

 

But right now it’s all so very real and she’s scared in ways she can’t be without setting herself up for it first.

 

There are parts of him that want to rationalize the act, make it alright in a semblance of twisted right in so much wrong, that if he didn’t she’d be going to someone else, because she would, because she keeps promises much better than he ever did, even the vicious ones.

 

And he knows already what she’s been wracking her mind for a solution to ever since she told him what would happen if he ever broke her rules.

 

He knows as well as she does that if she ever went to someone else it puts her on a level closer to his own than the one she’s stayed so high perched on.

 

If she’s only ever had him then she’s always the better of them because she’s not his first or his only. It’s cold comfort meaning little in the aftermath that he’s the only one she wants, the idea doesn’t keep him happy or warm at night because he knows she wished it wasn’t true.

 

There are parts of him that know he does it because it’s better than any sick fantasy, it’s real. All her fear, the struggling isn’t fake or for play, and he’s always wondered what it’d be like to really just take it and have her know it’s him and that he’s a monster.

 

It won’t matter later what he’s done, the nightmarish surrealist trip she’s on will be over and what’s him raping her during the whole thing is her fucking with his head after it’s over.

 

Nightmares aren’t real and monsters disappear in the daytime but at night they catch you and drag you under the bed.

 

He enjoys it as much as he can while he does it because in a few hours he knows he’ll feel like shit over the whole thing, mostly because she’ll smile like she’s won, and she will have. She always wins.

 

There’s a moment when he knows the repulsive high in her is cresting. She stills, horrible stillness and he does too not quite understanding in his blanketed haze of violent ardor or fervor or whatever the word for hating and worshipping something at the same time is.

 

She shakes in little shivers until she coughs until she can’t breathe right until she tilts and vomits over the edge of the bed until she sinks deep down in an unconsciousness that isn’t really as dark and empty as she would have liked.

 

The night’s over he realizes. He’s collects himself despite not being finished, but he can fix that later when he’s alone, physically at least. He does the best he can to clean up vomit and tuck her into bed and smother her with a pillow and a sigh leaving his chest before he goes.

 

He knows that the high doesn’t wear off just because her body can’t stand to be awake anymore, he knows the worst trips just corrupt more thoroughly when your eyes close. It’s a kindness she’d rebuke him for later if she knew, but she won’t know so he does it anyway because something in him thinks it’s funny that he’s suddenly become the kinder of them, the more humane, the least fucked-up. At least within a more recent scheme of things.

 

Even when he’s alone and he can replay tugging the sheets off her small body, how the inside of her mouth is hot even through a layer of latex, how hard she bites down on his fingers, how she gags on them.

 

He has the sound of her squeal when he forced her onto her stomach memorized. The rip of her underwear’s elastic, the wet squelch of his spit slick suited fingers slipping between her thighs and inside of her, the ridge of her spine against the heel of his hand while his fingers circled the back of her neck, everything’s imprinted even the way her garbled protests got him hard.

 

How when he pulled his fingers out of her mouth she screeched and wailed and begged.

 

After he cums he peels the sticky suit off himself, tugging, dragging, pulling it away from his skin violently.

 

He stands naked in front of the furnace while it warps in on itself, melting, twisting, popping, and igniting.

 

*     *     *

 

She finds him.

 

He doesn’t even have to call her.

 

“You cried like a baby.”

 

“I was really scared.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Where’s the suit?”

 

“I burned it.”

 

“Smart.”

 

He smirks at her.

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

It’s by far the hottest day of the summer, climbing passed one hundred degrees and setting fire to brush. The winds only shove the fire around, playful like a child with a lighter and a gallon of gasoline.

 

She watches it from the roof for awhile before climbing back inside the master bedroom turned sunroom potted plant jungle as the house’s deed trades hands and signatures, there’s a humidity in the room that makes it easier to breathe.

 

The room is all sunburst colors as the day bleeds reds and oranges and the night makes friends with wildfire.

 

They fuck like animals trying to kill each other on the floor, she cuts lines into his chest and the backs of his shoulders and he wants more than anything and look down and find something carved into his skin, an obligatory _taint_ , or a territorial _V_ , and in spite of everything, in his most secret private daydreams, he hopes for _Mine_.

 

But there’s no pattern to the slashes, just blood, sticky and drying into itchy crusts on his chest and ribs, on her own breasts and stomach where it’s smeared, suctioning their skin together.

 

She pulls at him, thrusts up, rakes her nails down his cheek, hooks her ankles together against the small of his back, grasps his ass tight and tries to get him as deep as possible and fucks like she invented fucking.

 

When she tells him to hit her he does and she grins red back up at him. He licks her smile white again, she rolls him over and presses her breasts flat against his chest, holds her forearm across his trachea, makes him see black and white static, he doesn’t pass out, but he does cum harder than he’s ever had before.

 

 

*     *     *

 

She’s never called for him during the day before. Everything looks different with the sun still up, including her; she looks smaller, like a little girl who’s stayed up all night, frail and skinny.

 

“I just want to forget, everything. I just want to grow the fuck up.”

 

There’s a sigh and the stick of her forehead pulling up off the glass window pane. She stares at his reflection next to hers and raises her cigarette to her mouth, holding his stare.

 

“You can talk.”

 

He shakes his head.

 

He doesn’t want to talk

 

Not to her.

 

“Okay,” she says finally, a whisper, small and quiet and tilts her neck so he can put his lips on her pulse.

 

 

*     *     *

 

The afternoon sun is too bright, without any curtains left in the house to filter it.

 

“I don’t like being this way,” she tells him.

 

“I don’t like it either,” he admits stroking her spine.

 

 

*     *     *

 

 

It’s no consolation to him that she’s asked for the things that have been done. There’s no morbid satisfaction derived from killing Charles Montgomery with his own surgical tools. He finds no solace in being able to talk to her and say all the things he gets sent away before having the chance to speak.

 

She stays in the basement and stares at the ceiling or the walls of the floor and doesn’t talk. He doesn’t think she can anymore, maybe she doesn’t want to, he isn’t quite sure what parts of her frontal cortex she let the mad doctor poke holes in. He doesn’t know if she hears him or if she cares or if she’s locked in some hellish place her brain’s still able to make.

 

He thinks the whole thing might be an apology, maybe it’s supposed to be a punishment, for who he isn’t quite sure. Most days her lobotomized state doesn’t bother him to any discernible degree.

 

One day he realizes, and one day in forever is really just like any other day when he waxes poetic about it, he’ll kill her, fix her, make her come back, time takes the edge off things.

 

He hopes whatever is going on in her mind is not nice. He hopes somewhere in her head she’s lost and suffering. He’ll kill her when he’s not angry at her anymore, when he’s forgotten on his own, without the courtesy of an ice-pick wiping out his memory bank, that she sent him away and meant it and that he hates her for it.


End file.
